


The Riot's Gone Away

by faeleverte



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Canonical Character Death, Fix-It, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 09:58:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeleverte/pseuds/faeleverte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Clint was lying on a bed of broken glass, trying to get his bearings as the world collapsed outside the building he had crashed into when his existence was shattered." </p><p>In which Clint gets his life back with the help of a manic, cursing Sitwell and a controlled but angry Hill. In which no one wants to fight, no matter how much Clint needs it. In which sometimes dreams and memories are better than real life, and in which they sometimes pale in comparison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Riot's Gone Away

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings include: Graphic Sexual Content, BDSM, Flogging, Whipping, and Mental Instability caused by the process of grieving. 
> 
> Title taken from the song "The Riot's Gone" by Santigold 
> 
> With the deepest, sincerest, most grateful thanks possible to both of my betas, and with an extra helping of love for all the laughter, good ideas, and much-appreciated distractions (in the form of incredibly awesome fics of her own) to Selana.

Clint was lying on a bed of broken glass, trying to get his bearings as the world collapsed outside the building he had crashed into when his existence was shattered. He could hear what was going on, could hear Director Fury urgently trying to contact Stark, could hear explosions and screams, terror and fire devouring the city around him. And then he heard the note that was wrong. 

“Sitwell?” Clint asked weakly as he tried to roll to his feet, grunting as a few larger shards dug into his shoulders with the movement. “What are you... Where’s Coulson?”

His in-ear comm buzzed, signalling the switch to a private line. 

“Hawkeye,” Sitwell said, his usual sarcasm swamped with a wave of... something. There was something. “Phil... He...”

And the floor tilted.

There was retching, choking, and Clint was only dimly aware that the sounds were coming from his own throat. The sky darkened, and a voice was screaming, a raw sound of pain, of loss, of a life ending, wordless agony, and then the room darkened, and Clint was in a place of peace, his screams fading to sobs.

*

“Clint, it’s okay,” Coulson tells him, touching his face with warm fingers. “You’ll get through this, too. It’s not your first loss. Just keep breathing.”

“Goddamn it, Phil,” Clint whispers, reaching out with hungry hands, hunting for comfort in the middle of his terror. “I can’t go back out there. Not after what happened to him. And I don’t even know if Nat’s...”

“She’s still alive,” Coulson replies with a one-shouldered shrug, even as his other hand sneaks around Clint’s waist, pulling them tightly together. “Natasha can take care of herself.”

“Have you even seen what’s going on out there, Phil?” Clint tries to put a growl into his voice, but it is impossible to feel fear with Coulson’s lips against his neck, his breath tickling along Clint’s spine. 

“Yes, Clint,” Coulson replies, voice all Agent-in-charge in spite of the brushes of his tongue along the edge of Clint’s ear. “Budapest is burning. Kiss me quickly and get out there to find her. She needs you, but, before you go, I need you, too.”

Their lips are bruised when Coulson pushes them apart, both breathing raggedly and showing other, lower signs of arousal. 

“Get her back and return to me quickly, Specialist,” Coulson says. “I expect you here in time to scream my name tonight.”

*

“He’s gone, Clint,” Sitwell was saying when Clint regained consciousness. “Loki stabbed... I thought you knew. I thought...”

“Shut up, Jasper,” Clint rasped. “Shut the fuck up. I can’t... I don’t... No. Just shut the fuck up.”

“They need you, Clint,” Jasper said. “You have to do this. Phil...”

“Don’t say it, you motherfucker. Don’t say one goddamned word.”

“This is what Phil wanted, Clint,” Jasper continued, relentlessly pressing forward. “Find them. Help them. You can fall apart when this is over. But get your ass out there and save the fucking world before you do it, m’kay?”

Clint took a shaky breath, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth to wipe away the flecks of bile from his lips; he was suddenly glad Loki had not bothered to feed him for the last day. He reached over his shoulder, gripping a large wedge of glass and dragging it out of the muscle of his shoulder. 

“Affirmative, Agent Sitwell,” he said, dropping the bloody shard on the floor. His steps crunched across the carpet, and he stamped his feet slightly harder than absolutely necessary, trying to get feeling back in his numb extremities. He found the stairwell and began the agonizing descent, trying desperately to think only of the thump of his boots on the tiles.

*

“Do we have to go in today, Phil?” Clint asks, rolling onto his back, draped across the corner of the bed, head and feet all hanging toward the floor. “This is the least interesting assignment I’ve had since joining SHIELD, and that includes the weeks after I dragged Tasha back and got booted down. Selvig is the least likely to defect man alive. He doesn’t even know there’s another side. Pure science, joy of discovery, blah blah blah.”

“You’re supposed to be keeping an eye on things, so yes, you have to go keep eyes on them.”

“I prefer my eyes where they are, Sir,” Clint drawls, raising one eyebrow and studying the bare legs that breeze across the room from the bathroom to the closet.

Coulson steps backwards out of the closet, retraces his steps across the carpet, and drops to his knees at the foot of the bed. He leans forward, and Clint stretches his neck to accept the kiss. 

“I can give you something to think about during your long, tedious hours, if you need,” Coulson murmurs against Clint’s lips. And then he surges up the expanse of Clint’s chest, teeth and heat and hunger, and then everything becomes wet-hot and electric pleasure.

“Again tonight,” Coulson whispers against Clint’s hip later. “And the night after. And always.”

Clint lets his arms drop over his head, hands trailing on the floor, no thoughts spinning in his head under the happy buzz of his skin.

*

Halfway back to that monstrous Ode to the Ego that was Stark Tower, Clint’s knees gave out, and he was again attempting to heave his empty stomach through his brain. He crawled behind the burned-out shell of a bus to try to calm down, settle the shakes. He could hear Sitwell in his ear, but he had no idea what the man was saying, although he could hear the rhythm of his most-impressive swearing skills at something happening back at HQ. 

HQ? Why the hell was Sitwell at HQ instead of in the air on the bird he’d tried - LOKI, dammit - Loki had tried to take down?

“Because someone has had to babysit the baby agents while Daddy’s away,” Sitwell said dryly, and, fuck, Clint must have been out of it if he was speaking thoughts aloud. “Barton, get a move on. And try to control the dry heaving; it’s squicking me out, dude.”

Clint shoved himself to his feet and started skulking up the road. The skulking was habit, but one for which he was truly grateful. The deeply-ingrained ability to flit through shadows and cling to cover kept the big, grey monster things off of him, without requiring any additional thought. The not-thinking let his mind drift back over a million touches, a million kisses, a million moments of bliss. Fuck. Still in shock, then, if he was thinking like a girl. Well, a girl who wasn’t Nat. Or Hill. Or most of the other women at SHIELD. Or over the age of 14. 

A blast of wind and the roar of repulsors shook him out of his self-deprecating reverie, and he looked up in time to see the back of Iron Man flying with what appeared to be a missile.

“Huh,” Clint said over the comms. “Sitwell, wanna tell me why Stark and what looked like a great big bomb just flew into the portal.”

“Nuke headed for Manhattan,” Sitwell replied, deadpan. “Had to put it somewhere.”

“Who the fuck ordered a nuclear strike on Manhattan?” Clint asked, and then the penny dropped, and he answered in unison with Sitwell. “WSC.”

“Fuckers,” Sitwell supplied cheerfully. 

“Stark coming back?” Barton asked, straining his neck and his eyes to stare as far as he could into the inky hole in the sky. 

“Don’t think so,” Sitwell said with a sigh. “I liked that asshat, too. His ability to annoy Fury and Ph... Natasha. Unparallelled by any but you.”

And then the red suit dropped out of the sky, and the laser light show was over, and Clint missed the rest of what Sitwell was saying as he ran toward the Hulk’s roar.

“Yes, Black Widow,” Captain America was saying as Clint slid to a shaky halt beside Stark’s dented armor. “He’s with us. Bit bloody, but not too much worse for the wear.”

The Hulk gave that eager half-smile he’d worn as the team had split to fight, and then Clint’s knees were buckling with the force of a big, green pat on his head. He felt tears stinging his eyes, but his cheeks were nearly aching with the sudden grin that bubbled up from inside as Steve Rogers, Captain Fucking America, pulled him back to his feet. 

Clint thought, “Phil will absolutely DIE when he hears that our hands touched. He will spend an hour making love to the fingers of my right...”

The world cocked halfway off-axis again, and Clint was on the ground, eyes unseeing as his throat moved on to choking up blood instead of bile.

*

“I... There’s no... I don’t... Shut up, Barton,” Coulson snaps, ears red as hell and lips twitching, unable to settle on either disdain or humor. 

“You totally want to bang him, Phil,” Clint replies. He lets the teasing sparkle in his eyes. “Do I need to get a shield and a cowl and make patriotic declarations while you suck me off?”

“Really, Barton,” Coulson says, rolling his eyes. “No need to be crass.”

But Clint has already seen the flush spreading from ears to neck.

“Oh my God, Philip J. Coulson!” Clint shrieks, throwing himself backwards to land full-length on the couch in Coulson’s office. “That’s exactly what you want!”

“Barton, get out,” Coulson says with a heavy, bored sigh. Clint tries, but he can’t get off the couch, he is laughing so hard. And then Coulson drapes along the length of him, fingers strong and firm on his ribs and hip, mouth hot on his neck, and suddenly moving doesn’t seem quite so imperative.

The next day, a few hours shopping with Nat lead to the fourteen pairs of Captain America boxers that are hidden in strategic locations around their apartment before Coulson gets home from work. Between the laughter, the wrestling matches as each pair of shorts appear, and the chance to see such a broad swath of the human behind the Agent, it is the best weekend ever.

*

“Hey, Loxley,” Stark said as Clint managed to control the heaving and push himself off the ground. “Back with us?”

“Sorry,” Clint said, sitting back on his haunches. He wiped his palms over his face, feeling the sweat and tears sting the dozens of tiny cuts on his cheeks. “Been a shitty few days.”

It was Thor who offered a hand then, and Clint took it with a great deal of hesitation. He found that he really wanted to like the blond giant, if only because of how much Loki hated him. A mutual problem with Loki could be the perfect foundation for an eternal friendship.

“Thanks, man,” Clint muttered, slinging his bow across his back as he fell into step with the four superheros. He plucked a few arrows out of limp alien bodies as they picked their way through the rubble. “Where’s Nat?”

Stark pointed up at the tower, and led the way into the the lower level. “Let’s go get us a pissy little godling,” he said. “JARVIS, Loki still waiting for us up there?”

“Indeed, Sir,” a disembodied voice answered as the elevator door slid shut. “He has not yet regained his faculties from his encounter with Doctor Banner’s alter ego.”

Hulk let out a snort that might have been a laugh or might have been a self-satisfied grunt. Clint selected an arrowhead and was already drawing as Natasha alighted from another elevator with Selvig on her heels. Clint couldn’t bring himself to meet either of their eyes, nor could he look at the Stabby Spear of Doom in Nat’s hands as they all turned down a hall that Stark indicated. 

Loki was trying to drag himself out of a godling-shaped hole in the floor when the team bunched up behind him. Clint could not help the smirk when that urbane voice failed to urge him to do anything but release the arrow he held mere inches from Loki’s cool green eyes (and, wait, weren’t they blue? Fucking Tesseract). There was a moment of hot disappointment in Clint’s mouth when Thor pulled a pair of magical cuffs out of some TARDIS-like Asgardian pocket and secured Loki’s hands. So the asshole would be shipped off-planet, and Clint would never get the satisfaction of revenge on this monster who stole his will, his soul, and then everything that was left. Fuck it. At least it was over.

On the elevator ride down to deliver Loki into the waiting embrace of a hundred well-armed SHIELD agents led by a maniacal Sitwell, Clint could feel Natasha’s eyes narrowed at him. He waited until the moment before the door opened to look up, meet her gaze. In that one look, he let her see what he would never let anyone else see: the absolute desolation and emptiness that was all that was left of Clint F. Barton. He heard the breath she sucked in, and then he was heading toward the shattered street, trying to get away before the dizziness hit him again. He did not make it.

*

Clint is flying, floating high above all the noise that usually swamps his head. His knuckles occasionally drag across the painted cinderblock wall behind the headboard where his wrists are secured with smooth leather restraints. The rough texture is a grounding point, a dissonant feeling in a world where everything is sensation: the ache in his shoulders, the hard edge of a wrinkle of the sheet under his face, the flex in his hips where his body is draped forward from kneeling legs, and, most of all, the fiery sting of the flogger falling across his back in a complicated rhythm known only to the steady hand that wields it. Clint’s so far gone that he can’t even groan. He hears murmurs of “Beautiful” and “Love” and “I can’t even...” And then there is a pause and then hands on him, smoothing over the burning surface of his skin, lighting up nerves connected directly to his groin.

“My god, love,” Coulson’s voice is breathless in his ear, “I can’t wait anymore.”

And then there is pressure and passion and a slap to his hip with the rough command, “Get me there; I’m not doing all the work.” 

It’s minutes or hours or years later, and Coulson is leaning forward over his back, changing the angle to Exactly Right and growling, “Now or never, babe. Come for me.”

And they’re both screaming, throats raw with emotion and lust and the fire and ice that burn between them. 

“Perfect, Clint,” Coulson whispers into his shoulders as they pant their way back to Earth. “Always so perfect.”

*

“Hush, Clint,” Nat said, her fingers warm on Clint’s face, wiping away tears and sweat and blood. She leaned over him, watching his face. “You found out. I didn’t want you to know yet. We need you to stay together for a little bit longer.”

“I’m together, Nat,” Clint whispered, catching her hand and squeezing her fingers. “I’m as together as I’ll ever be, anyway.”

“Oh, Clint,” Natasha breathed. Something resembling sympathy warmed her eyes.

“Don’t you dare, Nat,” he growled, rolling to his feet and pulling her up with him. “This was what compromised you, huh? This is your way to wipe out your debt?”

“He did this to you, Clint,” Natasha said, her hands solid where they rested on the sides of his neck. “He did this to you, and that’s mine. I owe you a debt of life and love and everything that I am. And he did this to you. He did this to him, and how will you ever... He did this to you.”

Her voice broke on the last word, and Clint wrapped her against his chest, pulling her in close to breathe in the dust and blood and sweat and that scent of battle that was adrenaline and fear that was caught in her hair, smelling that unique spice that was Natasha underneath it all. 

“It’s okay, сестренка,” he said against her head. And she was his little sister, in all the ways that counted, even if she was so much more. “We’re still here. You and me, and we’re still here.”

“But how will you be here without him?” Natasha asked the question that Clint couldn’t. He caught a sob in his throat, fighting off another wave of nausea.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, pushing her away, remembering that he was angry with her. “You could have told me when I, er, came back. When you knocked Loki out of my skull with whatever it was you hit me with.”

“I wanted to, Clint,” Natasha said. “I don’t lie to you lightly - you know that. But I needed you able to fly, able to function. The whole world was coming apart at the seams, and there was no one else who could have gotten me back into this fight. I needed you.”

And, yeah, that was why Clint loved her more than he had ever loved anyone. Well, almost anyone. He loved that she knew what she stood for, for her loyalty, for her ability to do what had to be done, no matter the cost to herself. And he loved the warmth of her arms, the softness of her voice when no one else was listening, her ability to kick his ass in hand to hand combat every single time they sparred. He understood. He would never be able to lie to her, not outright and not through omission, but he understood why she would pay that price, why she would risk his trust to do what needed to be done. And it was for Phil. She did it to avenge Phil, as payback for Clint’s shattered heart. He could forgive anything for Phil.

“Okay, Nat,” he said, pulling her back against his chest, clinging just a bit. He wanted to shoot her, and she would likely let him at this moment, but, more than that, he needed her. He needed someone who could tell him to keep breathing in and out.

It was getting late when Clint was proven wrong in his assumption that his life could not possibly get more surreal. He found himself sitting in a half-shattered Shawarma place with real, honest-to-god superheroes, eating a victory dinner, one booted foot propped on the seat of Natasha’s chair. And fuck, the amount of food the team put away. Clint stared out the window, trying to keep himself from thinking, from feeling. But that was not right. There was no “trying” not to feel; he could not feel. There was nothing inside to feel with. Numb. Empty. A relief, almost, after the overwhelming feeling of whatever it was that he thought he felt under the influence of Loki and that damned spear and the Tesseract. Doctor Banner snorted a short, dry laugh beside him, dressed in clothing from Tony Stark’s own closet. It suited him, both the laugh and the fancy clothes. There was something about that guy - Clint figured he’d like him, if he had anything left with which to like. Phil always spoke highly of the man, understandingly, kindly.

*

“The Avengers Initiative,” Coulson says, shaking foam off of his razor. “Fury and I are having some disagreements over our inclusions. Banner is a gimme, but Fury doesn’t think he’ll do it. Banner’s a good guy. I think that if we manage to convince him of that...”

“Fury?” Clint asks, ducking under Phil’s arm to rinse his own razor.

“Banner,” Coulson clarifies. “I think Banner thinks he’s become some kind of monster. I don’t really believe it after that whole Abomination debacle. Hulk is... well, he’s not friendly or cute or controllable, but there’s still something very Banner underneath it all. And, maybe someday, we’ll need a monster we can turn loose.”

“Preferably not in populated areas,” Clint mutters back, also thinking of the “Abomination debacle.” 

“We can hope not,” Coulson replies with a smile. He drops his razor into the ceramic cup they share and picks up a towel to swipe at the last of the shaving cream on Clint’s earlobe. Then he leans down to lick the place where it had been. “Mmm, soapy and not very pleasant.”

“You wouldn’t care if that shit was still on there,” Clint says, smirking at their reflection. “You’d still suck on my ears, sir.”

“Probably right,” Coulson says. “And you.”

“And me what?” Clint asks, leaning close to the mirror to check for missed patches.

“For the Avengers Initiative,” Coulson answers serenely. “You’ve been down for it since you hit level three.”

Clint stops breathing and drops his razor.

*

The weeks following the Battle of New York were some of the worst Clint ever had to live through, and, given his history, that was an impressive amount of bad. Between the steady stream of funerals and moments of silence and painful meetings and the endless debriefs, there was barely time to sleep or eat, let alone waste time feeling anything. It all set his teeth on edge, and he started going out at night, trying to find trouble. Unfortunately for him, the appearance of aliens and monster battlebridge whales had created rather a lot of goodwill to men, and no one else was looking for a fight. He started taking his frustration out on junior agents in combat training, but that backfired when Natasha joined him for the demonstrations.

“Think you could go easy on the bereaved?” Clint asked plaintively after one particularly abject lesson in “Why Not to Piss Off Black Widow.” They were sitting in the locker room, Clint on a bench with an icepack held to his skull and Nat humming to herself under the waterfall of a shower. 

“What has been your problem lately, Barton,” she asked blandly. “I thought you liked a good beating.”

“Shut your face, Romanov,” he grouched, unable to find a wittier comeback. Maybe the last strike had scrambled his brain. That would serve her right: causing him permanent brain damage. 

“Jesus, Barton,” she said, turning off the water and plucking her towel off the short wall that separated the showers from the lockers. “You are off your game, doll.” 

Nat pulled a dark navy robe around her shoulders and perched on the edge of the bench beside him, allowing her shoulder to brush against his arm. 

“If you’re that anxious for a beatdown, I have an idea,” she told him. “Fury landed a couple of hours ago.”

And suddenly Clint went from a tired slump to sitting straight with all the tightly wound energy of a taut bowstring. The hum of anticipation curled at the base of his spine, his limbs going loose and relaxed as if he had the target on the point of an arrow, a shot ready to take.

“Yes,” he said, voice utterly calm in spite of the electricity that sparked under his skin. “I have a couple of questions for our esteemed leader.”

“For example?” Natasha’s voice was muffled as she pulled a t-shirt over her head.

“Mainly why he let my boyfriend go tramping off with an untested weapon and no backup,” Clint replied. “And where the hell Phil is now so I can give him the right kind of send-off.”

“You’re handling losing him pretty well,” Natasha said softly. She looked up from where she was lacing her boots. “I thought you’d have gone to pieces by now.”

“Nat,” Clint began. He stopped and sighed. “There was always the chance one of us would lose the other. Practically a guarantee. We talked about it, sometimes, after too much rum or too rough of a mission. We knew it would happen. I just always thought he would be the one left behind. I’m glad he wasn’t.”

“So let’s go get your answers,” Natasha said. She rose and held her hand out for Clint to take, and he unhesitatingly slipped his palm into hers.

*

Clint is already wiped out when he gets home, toeing off his battered tennis shoes as he eases through the door. He shrugs out of his jacket and turns to hang it on the rack beside the door. 

“Thank you, God,” Coulson’s utterly calm voice directly behind him is a surprise, with Coulson’s ninja-like walk and Clint’s inability to function. The hands that catch Clint’s shoulders are an even bigger surprise, but the impact of his spine with the door as he’s spun and pressed back is expected, welcome, perfect.

“Hey, honey,” Clint says with a tired smile. “I’m home.”

Coulson doesn’t waste time as he kisses his relief into Clint’s lips, his neck, his shoulder. He does that thing to the soft patch of skin just behind Clint’s ear, a complicated dance of teeth and tongue, and Clint is just gone.

“Was terrified,” Coulson whispers as he efficiently shucks Clint out of his clothing, first his shirt, then shoes, socks, and jeans. His eyes and fingers track over the bandage around Clint’s ribs, the new burns on his biceps, the tiny scrapes and sharp cuts on the fingers and wrist of the bow hand. “Thought this was going to be the time. Hated it. Hated how it felt. Hated the weakness. Longest week...”

“Hey,” Clint says gently, cupping Coulson’s face in his hands, forcing him to look up. “I’m here now. Nothing left behind but a little blood. I’m here.”

In spite of his exhaustion, Clint manages to catch Coulson’s arms and force him backwards across the entry. Coulson’s shirt and sweatpants are stripped off before Clint bodily hoists him to sit on the sturdy table against the wall. There was an incident with the previous entry table, and they made absolutely certain this one had enough structural integrity to hold two grown men. Clint smiles against Coulson’s collarbone as he remembers that shopping trip.

“I’m home now,” Clint whispers before capturing Coulson’s mouth with his lips. 

Coulson groans into the kiss, eyes open, watching like he’s afraid Clint will disappear if he shuts them for even a second. His fingers dance down Clint’s back, cataloging every muscle, every old scar, the bandage that covers stitches that will be a new scar, the feeling of skin and heat and strength.

Clint is used to this post-mission desperation from Coulson by now. He never thought that the impassive, perfectly controlled Senior Agent had this level of hunger, of raw need in him. 

“Are you so afraid to be alone then?” Clint asks, pulling his face and shoulders back, but leaving his hips pressed tightly against Coulson’s. 

“Not alone that’s the problem,” Coulson replies, giving one of his wry, almost-invisible half smiles. “It’s being without you. Going through the losing of you. I’m not sure I’m strong enough for that.”

“Phil,” Clint says, a low warning in his voice.

“Shut up, Barton,” Coulson interrupts. “I know there are no guarantees. I have pretty much accepted the danger. But it’s not living without you that is so overwhelming; it’s the moment of loss I’m afraid of.”

It is a huge admission between them, the implication that only death could separate them. Clint looks into those open blue eyes and sees that the Agent Coulson mask is stripped away, leaving only a very vulnerable Phil behind. He tries to speak, say something, but there are no words for what goes through his head in that moment. Coulson doesn’t need the words, anyway; he can read it all in Clint’s eyes and the touch of his hands, in the tremble of his body.

“What say you remind me that you got home this time,” Coulson says, digging in his blunt nails to drag their chests back together. Clint grins, hungry and wolfish as he leans in to do just that.

*

Clint had gotten his wandering mind back under control by the time he and Natasha were standing outside Fury’s office. There was shouting from behind the door, a woman’s voice raised in a near-shriek that threatened to shatter the frosted window in the door. Clint listened, trying to figure out who would dare use that tone of voice with the director. He glanced at Natasha just in time to see her eyes go wide and her lips part, just a touch, in shock. 

“AD Hill,” she murmured with a lift to one perfect eyebrow. Clint felt his own eyes widen; Hill was the only person he had ever met as in control of her emotions and reactions as Coulson.

The door in front of them slammed open as Hill came out. The doorknob crashed against the wall and rebounded to be caught in one of Hill’s slender hands that all of SHIELD knew to be strong as iron, despite their delicate appearance. Hill’s eyes widened fractionally when she saw who was waiting in the hall.

“Fine, Nick,” Hill snapped, whirling to glare back into the office. “If you won’t tell me what the hell is going on, then here is someone that you cannot possibly deny the truth. I don’t give a rat’s ass what games you’re playing with this agency. It’s your agency to play whatever sick games you want. But you need to tell Barton. The truth this time. You owe it to Phil, you ass.” 

Hill slammed the door against the wall again before turning to Clint, gouging one finger into his chest and leaning into Clint’s space, her face inches from his. “Give him hell, Barton.”

And then she marched up the hall, back stiff, muttering vitriolic curses and waving her arms. Clint took a deep breath and exchanged a bewildered look with Natasha.

“Romanov,” Fury barked from inside his office. “Get in here. Barton, keep your ass parked right where it is.”

Clint watched the door swing shut behind Natasha as she stalked into Fury’s office without so much as glancing back at him. He sank to the floor against the wall, crouching, one knee resting on the floor in the position he assumed in every nest he ever sat. If he was going to wait, he might as well be comfortable. He let his head bang back against the wall, closing his eyes and counting his breaths, in and out, steady and calm until he could feel his heartbeat respond and slow to match his breathing.

If only there was still a voice in his ear.

*

“Take the shot.”

“Enough chatter, Agent.”

“Specialist, status report.”

“Eyes on the target.”

“Barton? Talk to me.”

“We really do discourage flirting on the comm.”

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about; it’s much drier there than here.”

“Goddamnit, Barton, forget the goddamn wildebeest for one goddamned minute and do your goddamned job.” 

“You think you’re cute or clever, but, really, we just keep you around for your bow... Yes, Specialist, probably your ass, too.”

“Private line. I’m bored. Talk dirty to me.”

“I’m trying to speed up the evac. Get out of here as soon as you can. I need to hear your voice. And Clint... Stay safe.”

*

“Hey,” Natasha’s voice shook Clint out of his reverie. He reached for the hand she held down to him, expecting her to drag him to his feet. Instead, she just wrapped her fingers around his and leaned over him. “I’m going on assignment. Don’t know when I’ll be back. Out of contact for a bit. Clint...”

He looked up at her, feeling something inside his chest shrink. She stared at him, her eyes speaking, but her mouth a hard line. And then she kissed his temple and gracefully slid away down the hall. 

“Barton,” Fury called. Clint turned his head toward the office, surprised to find the Director standing in the doorway. “You got a minute?”

The lack of an order combined with the almost apologetic look he was giving Clint began to give the afternoon a completely unreal feeling. Pushing himself up the wall, Clint ran a hand over his hair and tried to match Fury’s casual tone. 

“Yeah, sir,” he mumbled, shifting his feet uncomfortably. “I wanted to talk to you about...”

“I know what you want to talk to me about, Specialist,” Fury said with a slight smirk. “What do you think I want to talk about, the goddamned weather? Get your ass in here.”

Clint followed him into the office, pausing in the doorway to let his eyes adjust from the brightness of the hall. The only lighting came from a reading lamp on the corner of the desk.

“You should turn the lights on, sir,” Clint said, more for something to fill the silence than anything else. “Hard on your eyes.”

“I have a headache, Barton,” Fury snapped. “Dealing with this herd of thundering morons is more than a mortal man can bear.”

“Good thing you’re not mortal,” Clint replied under his breath.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Fury said, circling his desk and flopping in the thickly-padded leather chair. He pulled a bottle and two glasses out of the bottom drawer of his desk. “Sit, have a drink.”

“I don’t...” Clint began to refuse, perching on the edge of the chair in front of the desk.

“You’re going to need it,” Fury replied, sloshing three fingers of whisky into a glass and sliding it across the polished surface of the desk, neatly dodging the scattered piles of papers and half-finished forms. Clint leaned forward to catch it before it dropped off the edge, and settled back, elbows on his knees. 

“Sir, I just want to know why...” he said, swirling the amber fluid. 

“Barton, first, I want you to know that I had no intention of letting Coulson go after Loki on his own,” Fury interrupted him. “But you know as well as I do that there was never any ‘letting’ Phil do whatever he decided needed to be done. Phil made that call, and I’m not going to insult his years of experience, his expertise, by second-guessing him. We were a bit busy at the time...”

“Because of me,” Clint said, barely getting his voice above a whisper. He took a sip, appreciating the burn. 

“No, Barton,” Fury said, softer than usual. “Because of Loki. Because Loki took one of my top damn assets, and he took my astrophysicist, and he came back here to take my rage monster and screw with the heads of my crack team of head cases.”

Clint huffed a bitter laugh and took another sip.

“And now there’s some things you don’t know,” Fury said. 

“Where is he, sir?” Clint said, closing his eyes. “I need to... I haven’t... There’s no... Please...”

“Clint,” Fury said, sounding tired. “I haven’t given you his body, because there isn’t one.”

“What?” Clint’s head snapped up.

“He’s not dead,” Fury answered, voice and eyes steady. 

“The fuck are you telling me?” Clint asked softly. And then he threw the rest of the whisky down his throat and flung the glass against the wall. He was on his feet now. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SAYING?” he screamed, leaning halfway across the desk.

Fury’s eye looked tired, and his face was drawn and haggard, but he did not flinch from the threat of violence. He looked down at where his hands were wrapped around his drink.

“Phil’s not dead, Clint,” Fury said, fidgeting with his own glass. “He was, briefly, and he... fuck, it was bad. But we don’t collect alien tech and mad scientists for nothing. Medical Research got him put back together, God only knows how. He’s only been well enough to go back on payroll for about two days. Prior to that, he was still listed as ‘inactive, presumed lost.’ Hill is the only one with clearance high enough to see his name on paperwork, so she came down here to find out what was going on.”

“I don’t... what are you telling me?” Clint asked, his voice hoarse as it squeezed out of his raw throat. “Why have you kept this from me?”

“Because it was best for the agency,” Fury replied calmly. “It was best for the Avengers Initiative, and there were no guarantees.”

“You asshole,” Clint hissed. He had one moment of clarity where he realized that he next move was a bad idea, a suicide mission, but he shoved the thought away. He launched himself across the desk, sending papers flying as his hands reached for Fury’s throat.

“Get off me, you psychopath,” Fury sounded bored as he caught Clint’s arms and twisted, slamming the archer onto his back on the desk. Clint bucked and twisted, kicking the lamp onto the floor and trying to get a boot to connect with Fury’s face.

“You kept him from me!” Clint screamed. “You cocksucking motherfucker! You have been... You let me believe... You worthless piece of shit!”

Fury’s attempts to block the feet that swung at him let Clint get an arm free, and he took full advantage to crash a fist across the Director’s face. Fury flailed for a moment, and then Clint was pinned on the floor behind the desk and there was a muted click as a needle pressed into the side of his neck.

“Goddamnit, Barton,” Clint heard Fury sigh as he slipped into unconsciousness.

*

Clint doesn’t know why he’s so twitchy when Coulson gets back to the apartment three hours late that night, but it’s instantly obvious that Coulson is feeling the same. 

“Wasn’t expecting you to still be here,” Coulson says, dropping his briefcase on the table on his way through the living room where Clint is lounging on the couch. Coulson’s suit jacket is shucked off and dropped on the back of a kitchen chair, but his shoulder holster stays in place on his back. Coulson pulls a beer out of the fridge, flips the top into the recycle bin and saunters back to Clint.

“Budge up,” he says, leaning down to flip Clint’s legs out of the way. Clint sits up feeling even more on edge when Coulson sits down at the opposite end of the couch, as much space as possible between them.

“Rough day, sir?” Clint asks cautiously. 

Coulson breathes through his nose, a rough exhalation that would be a snort in anyone less tightly controlled. He swigs another gulp of beer and sets the bottle on the coffee table before leaning back to scrub both hands over his face. He loosens his tie and unbuttons his collar, but doesn’t roll up his sleeves.

“What’s gotten into you today, Phil?” Clint asks, trying to inch closer on the couch without being too noticeable. Coulson gives him a deadpan stare and raises one eyebrow; he notices everything.

“I just need some space tonight,” Coulson answers, leaning forward to snag his beer.

“Uh,” Clint says, bunching his eyebrows together. “So you need me to go?” He tries to make it come out like a casual statement, but he can’t actually manage to disguise the hurt or the question.

“Yes, that would be for the best,” Coulson replies, not looking at Clint. “Probably just best if you...” He trails off, and Clint is suddenly even more tense.

“Well, don’t let me get in the way of your precious plans,” he snaps. “It’s not as if you asked me to stop by tonight. Oh wait, it’s exactly like that. You did, in fact, ask me to stop by tonight. Wouldn’t have wasted my time if I’d known you were just going to toss me out five minutes after you get home.”

“Waste of your time, is it?” Coulson says. He takes another thoughtful swallow of beer. “In that case, you should probably just leave your key on the way out.”

“Phil,” Clint gasps, “What the hell?” His hands are shaking now, and he hovers, halfway up from the couch, unable to stand the rest of the way.

“I didn’t stutter,” Coulson says, still looking into the middle distance, away from Clint.

“Goddamnit, Phil!” Clint snaps. “Look at me! What the hell... Where did this come from?”

“We’ve had our fun,” Coulson replies, voice grim. He still won’t turn his head. “Probably best we end this before we wind up with some kind of entanglement.”

“Some kind of... Phil? Talk to me!” Clint’s voice is pleading, and he throws himself onto the couch beside Coulson, grabbing his shoulders and letting his fingers dig in too hard.

Coulson meets his gaze then, expression completely blank, eyes hard and empty.

“Really, Barton,” Coulson says coldly. “Hasn’t this little fling run its course by now?”

Clint flinches back as if he’s been struck, and drops his hands. He can’t breathe, and, for the first time in years, he can’t read a single thing in Phil’s eyes, his posture, his voice. Clint opens his mouth to speak, and nothing comes out. Everything solid in his world has vanished between two ticks of the Captain America clock on the wall. 

“You know what,” Clint says after a moment of gaping like a fish. He’s on his feet now, yelling. “Fuck you, Agent. Fuck you very much. You know damn well that this wasn’t some kind of fling for me, and you let me believe it wasn’t for you, either. So you can just take your pissy little mood and your sexual deviance and fuck right off.”

He grabs his keys out of his pocket and starts to wrestle one of them off the ring, and that’s when he finally glimpses a change in Coulson’s eyes. The blankness there has been swallowed by something hot, desperate, frightened.

“Fury knows,” Coulson says quietly, dropping his gaze. “He called me into his office today to ream my ass for having an inappropriate relationship with an asset. He …”

“He told you to break it off,” Clint says, slowly sinking back onto the couch, the adrenaline leaching from his blood leaving him shaking and cold. 

“No,” Coulson answers. “He didn’t specify a course of action.” There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Mostly he just wanted to yell.”

“Phil, what do you want to do?” Clint asks slowly. He drops his keys on the side table, because, dammit, he’s not giving up that easily. Not if... But it’s such a big if.

Coulson drops the bottle on the floor and throws himself at Clint’s chest, slamming their mouths together roughly, all teeth and desperation. Clint tastes tears as they lock their arms around each other, touching, clutching, hungry, but he can’t tell whose they are. The butt of Coulson’s gun gets pinned between their ribs, and they both ignore the bruises it is leaving as they cling to each other.

The shrill ringing of a phone cuts through their frenzy, and Coulson closes his eyes and digs it out of his slacks pocket with a shaking hand.

“What?” he barks into it, not bothering to check the caller ID. 

Since Coulson’s head is resting on Clint’s shoulder, Clint can clearly hear Fury’s voice over the line.

“That was Director and Senior Agent earlier,” Fury says. “Right now, as just Nick and Phil, I gotta tell you, don’t let that one get away.”

Phil slams his thumb on the red button to end the call and hurls the phone across the room, grinning when he hears it smash against the bookcase.

“Yes, sir,” he breathes against Clint’s mouth as he leans in for another kiss.

*

There were voices whispering when Clint woke up. It took several minutes of blinking before the glow in his eyes sharpened into a light fixture overhead, and then the smell of Medical hit him, and he was rolling off of the hospital bed, surprised as hell to find himself still fully clothed, and even more shocked to discover the whispers had been coming from Sitwell and Hill. They stared at Clint, Sitwell’s mouth still hanging open slightly from whatever he had been saying.

“Welcome back to the world of the waking, Barton,” Hill said dryly. She folded her arms across her chest and looked him over. “Exactly what did you do to Fury to get him to dope you and send you down here?”

“I might have kicked his lamp in the floor,” Clint replied. “And I kinda punched him in the face.”

“But did he tell you what’s going on?” she asked.

“Phil’s... Coulson’s alive,” Clint said. His head spun, and he was grateful for Sitwell’s catlike reflexes that kept him off the floor. 

“Easy there, birdbrain,” Sitwell said as he eased Clint into a sitting position on the bed. “Breathe slowly and try not to puke on my shoes.”

“Thanks, baldy,” Clint replied, attempting and failing to inject the insult with any venom. “Just keep your shiny little loafers out of the way, and I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

“Gentlemen,” Hill snapped, cutting them both off. “I knew it, Clint. I saw something go through the system this morning, and I just knew it. I’ve been hounding Fury about a memorial for weeks now, but he’s cut me off and changed the subject every time. I was about to ask Stark to hack the computers again and find out what was going on.”

“I still don’t know anything,” Clint said dully. He rubbed his hands roughly over his face in an unconscious imitation of Phil’s frustrated gesture. “I might have jumped Fury before he gave me any real details.”

“Well, I’ve been promoted to a Level Seven,” Sitwell said with the impish grin that made everyone underestimate his abilities, “and we have the Assistant Director with us. Not to mention you and your Super Spy friend...”

“Nat’s on a mission,” Clint interrupted. “Just before he called me in, Fury sent her out. Don’t know when she’ll be back.”

Hill’s eyes narrowed, and her lips thinned and hardened. “That explains why Fury was trying to get me out of here this afternoon. My mission went belly up, so I ended up not having to go. He’s trying to keep this right here, the four of us, from happening.”

“And exactly what is happening?” Clint asked.

“We’re gonna go fetch your boyfriend back,” Sitwell replied brightly, practically bouncing on his toes. 

Guy has way too much energy, Clint thought. He pushed himself back to his feet, relieved when the ground stayed still this time, and straightened his shoulders. “Alright. How do you propose we do this?”

“Jasper,” Hill said to Sitwell, “go collect Brunwalski from tech and Evanston from data. Meet us in my office in twenty.”

“Ma’am,” Sitwell replied with a short nod before bouncing away down the hall.

Nineteen minutes later, Hill was shutting down the electronic surveillance around her office and engaging the lock on her door.

“Evanston, I need you to access all medical research records from accounting for the last seven weeks,” she said, pulling up a single screen on the bank of computers along the far wall. “Brunwalski, your job here is to cross reference every point where Evanston finds a medical expense that matches to a tech entry.”

“For this base?” Brunwalski asked, starting to pull up information on another screen.

“I think that, for the moment, we can keep it to North America,” Hill replied.

Clint flinched at that. “You really don’t know...” He started to ask. 

Hill spared him a sideways glance, her cool blue eyes unreadable. Clint hunched his shoulders and sank deeper into the couch; best stay out of the way while the others worked. He stared at the floor a few feet in front of the toes of his boots and let the technical jargon wash over him, Sitwell occasionally commenting on a data point and Hill’s one-word replies keeping him from sinking into his head. And then the room went silent.

“Barton? Clint!” Hill said, her voice a hoarse whisper. “We’ve got him. We’ve... he’s here. How did Fury... He’s here, Barton.”

Clint felt the world get fuzzy again, but he refused to vanish into his thoughts this time. 

“What do you mean, ‘here?’” he asked. 

“I mean here in this very building,” Hill answered flatly. 

Sitwell’s face had lost all traces of good humor. He stood in the corner, curved lips pressed tightly together and cheeks pale. He and Hill exchanged a long, intense look that Clint could not process from his position on the couch.

“We’re getting him,” Sitwell said, squaring his shoulders. 

“What if he’s not...” Clint stopped and took a deep breath, looking down at his hands. “What if he’s not well enough to be taken out?”

“We’ll get you to him,” Hill answered, her voice deadly serious. She slid out a gun to check the clip. “Brunwalski, Evanston, you both need to stay here. I’ll engage the locks with a timer to let you out after an hour. No offense intended, of course.”

“None taken, Ma’am,” Evanston drawled, and Brunwalski nodded his agreement. 

Hill turned back to Sitwell and Clint. “Remember, do not, under any circumstances, shoot to kill. Disarm, disable if you have to, but do not kill off the medical research staff or anyone assigned to guard them.”

She led the two men into the hall, engaged the lock from the control pad outside her office door and swept along the corridors to a lift in an area so locked down that even Clint and Natasha had never been able to infiltrate it. A scan of her eye started them moving, and Clint folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall, digging deep for some kind of peace.

*

“Hey, babe,” Coulson says, his voice rough with sleep. His sleeve has left an impression on the side of his face, and his mouth has left a patch of drool on his sleeve.

“You should get home,” Clint tells him, leaning his shoulder blades against the wall right inside the door and shoving his hands deep in the pockets of his cargo pants. Part of him wants to go over and touch the sleepy, rumpled, gorgeous man in front of him, but mostly he just doesn’t ever want to stop looking. 

“Come with me,” Coulson says, pushing himself back into his chair and slouching, legs flung out in front of him. His warm, blue eyes are dark, intense, looking for something in Clint’s face.

“I could do that,” Clint replies easily, feeling the corner of his mouth quirk with the pleasure of being wanted. 

“I mean come with me,” Coulson says, floundering to impart new meaning to a phrase he’s used a hundred times. “Bring your things and stay.”

Clint feels his whole body still, like the floor under him and the wall behind him have vanished, and he’s hovering, suspended over nothing. 

“For how long?” he asks gruffly.

“Always,” Coulson answers with a glimmer of a smile. “For always.”

And then Clint is no longer suspended; he’s swooping through the air, flying and circling like his namesake bird. He has never felt so safe.

*

Security was waiting for them when the elevator doors opened. Sitwell swung to the front, flailing like a dervish and screaming random obscenities, taking down about half of the force before Clint had set foot on the tile. Hill stepped forward with the barrel of her gun in her hand, using the butt as a club, every movement tightly controlled, working into the gaps of Sitwell’s extremely noisy front. Clint watched them for one long breath, wondering where they had learned to move so well around each other, and then Hill was biting out orders.

“Straight through those doors, Barton,” she called. “Catch!” the last as she threw her ID badge over her shoulder. Clint snagged it out of the air, jumped over one downed guard and then a spinning jump off the wall and he cleared the head of the last man standing. 

He swiped the badge at the lock and then Hill was at his side, Sitwell puffing behind her, and then the trio raced through to find a long, deserted hallway beyond. They had almost reached the other end when a thunder of footsteps and Fury’s voice stopped them all cold. 

Clint started to panic as the path forward and the path back filled with dark-suited agents.

“Mind telling me what the HELL you think you’re doing, AD Hill?” Fury barked. 

Clint pushed her out of the way and shouldered through the group at the front to where Fury was standing in their midst. 

“You have something of mine, sir,” Clint said softly, crowding into Fury’s space. “You have something I can’t live without, and I intend to take it back.”

Fury opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the door behind him opening.

“Barton?” a soft voice said. It was a voice with none of Fury’s barking command, and none of Hill’s tightly controlled edge, but every man and woman in the hall turned toward it, nonetheless. Phil leaned against the door dressed in a SHIELD t-shirt and a pair of ratty sweatpants that Clint was certain he had seen in his dresser that morning, feet bare, hair rumpled.

“Nice of you to finally make it, Barton,” Coulson drawled, his expression bland. Only Clint could have seen the look in Coulson’s eyes, part warmth, part fear, and part anger. And only Clint would have been hit so hard by that look. Clint’s vision whited out at the edges, and he went down in a heap on the floor. 

*

“Hold still, Mr. Barton,” the man in the black suit says calmly. He’s pressing the wad of his folded-up tie to the bullet wound in Clint’s leg. “Don’t want you bleeding out.”

“You shot me!” Clint gasps, half-stunned by shock. “You actually fucking shot me!”

“You wouldn’t stand still long enough for us to talk,” the man replies without so much as a twitch on his face. 

“Well your aim sucks,” Clint snaps back. “You didn’t hit anything remotely vital.”

The man studies Clint’s face for a moment and then raises one eyebrow. “That is actually evidence of just how good my aim is, Mr. Barton. If I’d been aiming to kill, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“You taking me in for my crimes?” Clint tries for cocky, but, truth is, he’s tired of running. He doesn’t want to sit in jail, though, and he’s hoping that enough of his offenses count as treason to get him executed quickly, since this creepy robot man who shot him without so much as a change in his breathing didn’t finish the job.

“Actually, I’m here to offer you a job,” the man says. “I’m Agent Coulson with Strategic Hazard Intervention Espionage Logistics Directorate.”

“The who what?” Clint says, mouth starting to hang open a bit. He snaps it shut with a click. He’s a highly-trained assassin - one of the best in the world - and nothing surprises him. He grunts as Agent Coulson presses harder on the wound in his thigh. 

“SHIELD,” Coulson answers. There’s just the slightest deepening of crinkles at the corners of his eyes, something no one without Clint’s eyesight would ever see. But Clint does see it and thinks that maybe there’s more humor in this tin man that’s shoving on his leg than apparent at first glance. 

“I’m not joining some creepy conspiracy, man,” Clint says. He tries to bunch himself up around his wounded leg, but Coulson forces him flat onto his back with one hand as easily as pushing around a child. “I’ve heard of you guys, and none of it’s been good.”

“You don’t have a lot of choice, at this point,” Coulson says. “You see, we’ve been monitoring you, and we’ve rather let it become known we’ve been monitoring you. I think you’ll find that your past friends aren’t quite so friendly now. It would be best for you if you come with me.”

Clint knows he’s well and truly fucked, but he isn’t going to give this G-man the satisfaction of seeing him beg.

“Guess I can go with you a bit, until this heals,” he mumbles, slapping the hand off his chest and sitting up.

The man smiles, just the slightest lift at the corners of his mouth, but the change in his eyes is startling. The cool blue depths fill with warmth and friendliness in a moment. “Welcome aboard, Junior Agent Barton. I’d shake your hand, but mine appears to be covered in blood.”

* 

Clint came to with his head cradled on the swell of a bicep he would know anywhere. After the uncountable times he had woken in just this position the pressure was familiar against his neck, his cheek, his jaw. Sometimes it was like like this, swimming back from unconsciousness, but sometimes it happened with a yawn and a smile after a good night’s rest. That was the moment Clint began to believe that this was real, not just another exotic dream his sleeping brain dreamed up to give him courage to face one more day. 

“Hullo, sir,” Clint murmured, looking up at the silvery-blue eyes right above his. Had they always been that blue? “Missed you, babe.”

Coulson made a choking sound in the back of his throat, and Clint found his shoulders clutched, face pressed deeply into the warmth and softness of the side of Coulson’s neck. He could smell the fresh shaving cream, not the usual brand, and the spicy hint of something that was all Coulson. 

“Clear the hall,” Fury said. “Let’s give these lovebirds a few minutes of privacy.”

Most of the footsteps went up the hall toward the elevators. Only three sets went deeper into the research labs, and Clint knew without looking up that Fury had indicated that Hill and Sitwell should follow him to wait inside.

As soon as the doors at each end clicked, Coulson’s lips were on Clint’s, gentle, tentative. 

“You’re here,” he whispered against Clint’s mouth. “I thought... I couldn’t get them to send for you, and they wouldn’t let me out to get you myself. When I heard you’d come back to me... God, Clint, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“No, Phil,” Clint whispered back, twisting until he was kneeling in front of Coulson, clutching at shoulders, fingers knotting in the back of the t-shirt that covered... what did it cover? What kind of damage was left by that wicked spear? “I’m sorry. This is... I took him there. Got him close enough to... God...” Clint’s voice cracked. “I’ve hated myself, hated this life. What the fuck was I supposed to do without you?”

“Shut up,” Coulson said gently. “Just shut up, you perfect, deranged, gorgeous, dangerous, mouthy, disrespectful, insubordinate, wonderful ass.” He punctuated each word with the ghost of a kiss against the corner of Clint’s mouth. “I’m here, love. I’m here now.”

“If you gentlemen have finished your... whatever it is that you’re doing that I am going to attempt to delete from my brain,” Fury said from the doorway, “we’re waiting for you in here.”

“Fuck you very much, sir,” Clint said cheerfully, leaning his forehead into Coulson’s and staring deeply into his eyes. “Right now, he’s mine. You can have him back in time for work tomorrow.”

“Actually, Director,” Phil said, reaching up to stroke his thumb across Clint’s lower lip. Clint shivered at the touch and at the dark, hungry look in Coulson’s eyes. “Hawkeye and I will be taking two weeks of our accrued vacation time, beginning at this moment. I’ll report for a full physical when we return.”

“Dammit, Phil,” Fury said, his tone gearing up for a rant.

“No, Nick,” Coulson cut him off. “This is more important.”

Clint was only partially surprised to hear Fury sigh and the door click shut as he went back into the lab.

“I should go get my shoes,” Coulson whispered, leaning in until his lips just brushed Clint’s. “And then I want you to take me home.”

“Yes, Sir,” Clint breathed, pressing into the kiss. When Coulson rose, pulling Clint to his feet with him, Clint discovered his legs were shaking. They leaned into each other on the way up the hall and through the door, fingers tangled together. Coulson gestured to a door nearby.

“Been in here awhile,” he said, voice gone a little off. Clint tilted his chin down to kiss the uncertainty off of Coulson’s face. 

They heard raised voices - Fury, Hill, and Sitwell - from a room down the hall, but Coulson just shook his head with an amused smirk and went into a tiny room that held a bed, numerous pieces of frightening medical equipment, and a chair on which sat a folded hospital gown and Coulson’s favorite, battered running shoes. Coulson sat on the edge of the bed to tug his shoes on, and then he was back on his feet, reaching for Clint’s hand.

“Take me home, love,” he said gently.

“Consider us gone,” Clint replied, voice thick with unshed tears, relief, and only the smallest amount of fear.

They were silent on the taxi ride across the city to their walkup. It wasn’t the usual easy silence they had shared in the dark of a mission or the calm of a Sunday afternoon at home. This one was full of feelings and ghosts, the ghosts of who they had been, what they had been through over the past several weeks, the weight of loss and the burn of rediscovery. Clint felt wave after wave of guilt threatening to overwhelm him, but he stared out the window, jaw clenched, forcing himself to stay in the present. There was no reason to drift off into memory, he told himself. Coulson was right beside him, fingers squeezed tightly around Clint’s.

The uncomfortable silence continued as Clint paid the cab and they climbed the stairs to their apartment. Clint unlocked the door, and, as he stepped through, Coulson bunched up against his back, broad chest pressing against Clint’s shoulders, arms snaking around Clint’s waist.

“It’s good to be home,” Coulson said softly, breath tickling the back of Clint’s neck. 

That was the moment the tears started. Clint had not cried since that first moment of agonizing, overwhelming grief and guilt as Sitwell tried to describe what had happened on the Helicarrier. He had not shed a single tear for any of his other coworkers, his friends, who had died in the carnage, too overwhelmed as he was by the enormity of his own loss. Even so, he did not understand until that moment of contact, of security, of a dream come true, exactly how much he had lost on the point of Loki’s spear.

“Clint,” Coulson whispered, crowding him through the door. “Come on, babe. Let’s get in.”

He manhandled Clint into the entry and turned on the light, swung the door shut and pressed a palm to the biometric lock beside it. Clint continued to sob, sounding completely brokenhearted. 

“Hush, love,” Coulson said, backing him across the entry to the table against the wall. Clint drooped until he was half-seated on the tabletop, leaning his face into Coulson’s chest and holding on while Coulson petted his hair and whispered gentle nonsense murmurs against his head.

“So why the tears?” Coulson asked after about ten minutes when Clint finally felt the sobs beginning to settle into gasps. 

“You were gone,” Clint mumbled, pushing himself further onto the table so he could wrap his legs around Coulson’s hips and pull him closer. “I thought I died that day, too. And now you’re here, and I just feel... Dammit, I’m so fucking lost, Phil. My heart’s trying to beat again, and it just hurts so fucking bad.”

Coulson didn’t reply for a long moment, and then he hummed deep in his throat and stepped out of Clint’s embrace. In one smooth motion, he gripped the bottom of his own t-shirt and swiped it over his head. Clint sucked in a breath at what was underneath.

“Nothing,” Clint whispered, reaching out with a cautious hand. “There’s no scar, nothing. How... What... I don’t understand.”

“Apparently they grew me a whole new chest bit,” Coulson said. “Back, too, including all the bone and the other pieces that were torn up.” He hesitated before speaking again. “I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through, Clint. I don’t remember a single thing until day before yesterday. I’ve been screaming at every person who walked through the door to get you for me. Threatened to taser Fury, but he was unimpressed. Apparently he was all too aware that I had not gotten my toys back yet. But it’s only been three days for me, and they were hard enough. Seven weeks is... I can’t imagine it.”

Clint gave a snort of semi-hysterical laughter and sniffed violently. 

“Glad you’re not dead, babe,” he drawled and then felt a genuine smile slide across his face at the snort of laughter Coulson gave in response. Clint slid off the table and looped an arm around Coulson’s shoulders. “Can we move this somewhere with more comfortable seating?” he asked. “It’s been kind of a long day.”

“Can we move this to the bedroom?” Coulson asked. “It’s been kind of a long few weeks.”

Clint caught his breath at the dark, hungry look in Coulson’s eyes.

“Sir,” he said, emphasizing the word the way he had before their relationship had begun, back when he was trying to get Coulson to notice him as more than just an asset, “we can move this little party any-damn-where you please, as long as you promise to touch me when we get there.”

“Bedroom, Barton,” Coulson snapped. “Now, if not before.”

Clint scrambled down the hall toward their room sparing one thought for the filthy sheets he had not gotten around to changing and the dishes in the sink (and on the counter and on the table), before pushing it all away. He flipped on the light and turned, a tide of want and hunger and desperation swamping him, and then Coulson was in the room, and they crashed together in a tangle of lips and tongues and hands.

“Need you,” Clint panted as Coulson sucked a bruise on his neck. “Been too long without you.”

“My body seems to be aware of how much time has passed, even if my mind isn’t,” Coulson’s voice was controlled. He clamped his teeth onto the meat of Clint’s bicep and bit down hard. Clint let out a yelp that trailed off into a groan. 

“More,” Clint growled, twisting his hands in the satin of Coulson’s hair and pulling. “Mark me.”

Coulson stopped breathing, going completely still in Clint’s arms.

“Clothing off,” Coulson snapped, pulling back and raking his lust-darkened eyes over Clint’s body. “Now.”

Clint felt the shaking in his hands still, and he took a deep breath, closing his eyes and letting his arms hang limp for a moment. When he looked up, Coulson was watching him, lips pressed together, eyes intent. The corner of Clint’s lips ticked upward, and he tugged his t-shirt over his head in a smooth motion. Coulson made no move, but his eyes grew fractionally darker. Clint let the lift to his lips become a full-on smirk and slowly peeled the fly of his jeans open and began to inch them down his hips.

“Before I get too much older, Barton,” Coulson said. His voice was barely husky, but he cleared his throat and shifted his shoulders restlessly. Clint toed his shoes off as he yanked his pants off the rest of the way. He flung them into a corner. Coulson took a deep breath through his nose, letting it out slowly as he prowled toward Clint.

“You’re supposed to fold those, you know,” Coulson said conversationally, eyes raking over Clint’s naked body. “But I’m not in the mood to make you go fix it now. Stand still for me.”

Clint rubbed his palms against his thighs.

“Still,” Coulson purred from behind him. Clint felt fingertips on his right shoulder and subsided, slipping his hands behind his back and finding his body relaxing into parade rest. “Mmm, better.”

Coulson’s fingers glided over the scars in Clint’s shoulders left by glass on the day that... No. Not thinking about that day now. 

But he was. In this moment, with tension slipping out of his shoulders, with the walls collapsing around his still-broken heart, Clint could not think of anything but that day. A tremble went through his body, and his knees gave out.

“Clint!” Coulson said. “God, are you okay?”

“Broken, Phil,” Clint managed to stutter out of shaking lips. “All I am now is broken, and I don’t know how to... I can’t...”

Coulson stepped close to Clint’s back and slipped his hands gently over Clint’s eyes. Clint dropped his head back to rest against Coulson’s thighs and took a deep, slow breath.

“You’re going to close your eyes and keep them closed for me,” Coulson said softly. “You will not open them until I allow it. I won’t bind them, but I don’t need to, because you are always so good for me.”

“Yes, Sir,” Clint breathed, feeling another twist of tension leaving his back. He squared his shoulders and straightened his spine, and the hands slipped off his face. 

“Good,” Coulson said, and Clint heard the creak of the bedframe as Coulson sat. “Now tell me. What broke you?”

“Lost the ground, sir,” Clint said immediately. He had explained his weirdest childhood fear one night over their private comm line. When he had been young, playing with the few other kids in the circus on the trapeze and the tightrope, there was sometimes a moment when he was flying through the air, tumbling or falling or leaping, that gravity somehow lost track of him, and he no longer knew which way was down. He had been afraid that he had gotten it wrong, that the direction he was reaching for a bar or a catcher was not the right direction, and he was going to miss and crash. He had been even more afraid that gravity was the thing that had gotten it wrong, and he was going to fly right up into space and die in the cold and the dark without oxygen.

Coulson was silent for a moment, but he shuffled a foot against the carpet so that Clint knew he was still there. After another beat he asked, “Can you feel it again?” 

“Don’t know, sir,” Clint answered. “Still reaching for the bar.”

The only answer was a deep hum in the back of Coulson’s throat and another creak of the bed as he stood and walked back to Clint. 

“Sir?” Clint asked cautiously. “May I ask...”

“You may ask me anything, Clint.”

“Are you... will you forgive me?” Clint’s voice cracked.

“For what would I need to forgive you?” Coulson said, standing near enough for Clint to feel the heat of his body.

“For giving up,” Clint answered. And then the words gushed out of him. “I gave up on you, on myself. I couldn’t stay in the moment. Every time I thought of you, it was like I just dropped into my head, into you, into us. There wasn’t anything for me out here, but you were still there in my mind, and I hadn’t let that bastard kill you. I didn’t even want the Avengers Initiative to go anywhere, because they only came together because of you. Because of you dying. But it was something you believed in so much, it was so important to you. And I hated it, hated them. And, sometimes...” Clint trailed off, tears trickling from under his closed eyelids. “Sometimes, sir, I hated you for leaving me.”

“I hate myself for that, too, Clint,” Coulson said simply. He ran his palm over Clint’s scalp. “And there is nothing to forgive.”

“Show me,” Clint said, tipping his chin up but keeping his eyes closed. “Show me.”

There was a slight huff of air that might have been a sigh or a groan from Coulson. 

“You may open your eyes, Clint,” he said. “Get on the bed, on your stomach, and grip the headboard.”

Clint tried to reply with an affirmative, and he was horribly embarrassed when the only sound that came out of his mouth was a small, desperate moan. Coulson chuckled, a deep, filthy sound in his throat, and Clint launched to his feet and flung himself up the length of the unmade bed. He stretched his arms up to lock his hands around the slats of the headboard, flexing and relaxing his grip to match his breathing, slowing both until he was calm. Well, as calm as he could ever be in the face of that kind of promise in Coulson’s laugh.

A bedside lamp clicked on, and then the overhead was turned off. The closet door opened, and there was the sound of rummaging through the piles that Clint had let collect on the floor in there, and then the bed dipped near Clint’s hip. Clint grinned to himself, pleased to find that Coulson still had his ninja-walk.

“We are going to have a discussion about the state of our home,” Coulson said lightly. 

“I’d have cleaned it up a bit, if I’d known...”

A stinging slap to the back of Clint’s left thigh cut him off sharply.

“Order outside, order inside,” Coulson said, still in that light tone of voice. “Clutter is distraction.” Another slap, a fraction harder, landed just above Clint’s knee on his right leg. Another slap, just below his buttocks. Clint bucked and sucked in air.

“If you’re neglecting the apartment,” Coulson said, pausing for two staccato swats across Clint’s buttocks, “what else have you been neglecting?” Another spank. “Hmm?”

Clint pressed his face against the mattress, trying not to groan, forcing his fingers to stay locked on the headboard.

“Have you been eating properly?” Coulson asked with a stinging slap on Clint’s lower back. Clint bucked, grinding his hips against the sheet.

“Use your words, Clint,” Coulson told him, just a hint of snark under the calm voice he used for pre-mission briefings. 

“N.. no, sir,” Clint answered. “Couldn’t much.”

A series of five burning strikes across Clint’s ass.

“Enough water?” Coulson asked.

“Yessir,” Clint answered, desperate to please. 

“Good,” Coulson said, shifting onto his knees so he could use both hands to leave a rapid trail of hits down each of Clint’s thighs. 

“How’s your personal hygiene been?” There was definite humor in Coulson’s question this time, and Clint couldn’t bite back the mouthy retort.

“Since the shower is the only damn place I don’t feel cold, and since I like my teeth, my ‘hygiene’ has been just peachy,” he snapped.

Coulson gave a rumble of displeasure in his chest and the slaps began raining on Clint’s skin. Clint gasped and bucked, trying not to twist, but unable to keep from arching toward the sting. He forced his head to stay in the moment, as it was PHIL giving him this. It was Coulson’s hand, and Clint did not want to miss a second of it. 

The blows stopped as suddenly as they had started, and Clint moaned, writhing his hips to rub his erection on the bed.

“Do you want to know the most irritating part of this little mess you’ve left?” Coulson asked lightly. His nails raked down Clint’s back and over his stinging ass. Clint moaned again as he felt powerful fingers press deeply into the muscles of his thighs with enough force to leave bruises. Coulson lifted one hand and continued speaking. “I had to dig to find this.”

The first strike of the flogger across Clint’s upper back started a dull roar at the back of Clint’s mind. His fingers relaxed microscopically from their grip on the headboard, and he caught his breath as he locked his fists again. The bed shifted as Coulson leaned back to give himself more room to swing, and Clint tried not to tighten in anticipation of the next thud of the falls across his skin.

The second contact stung, sending shocks of electricity into the nerves of Clint’s lower back as Coulson found his control. Goodgoddamn, that was the leather flogger. 

“Nnnnngh,” Clint managed to say, hoping Coulson would be able to translate the “yes, good, there, more.” Clint heard Coulson’s filthy chuckle again, and let his whole body go lax at the sound, sinking into the mattress and letting his mind start the spiral into bliss. After that, the stings came fast and hard, and Clint forgot his anger and his hurt and the sadness, forgot everything but the bite across his skin that he could feel leaving thin stripes of color and larger patches of red. He could hear Coulson panting above him.

“So good, Clint,” Coulson said, voice wrecked and hoarse. “God, you’re beautiful. So easy to mark.”

The falls brushed across Clint’s thighs, lightly, almost tickling, and then there was a beat of silence.

“Clint,” Coulson’s gentle voice came from right beside Clint’s ear. “Do you trust me?”

“Mmph,” Clint answered.

“Eyes on me, Barton,” Coulson snapped in his Senior Agent voice, and Clint’s eyes snapped open. “I need you to listen closely and to answer clearly now. Do you trust me?”

“Always, Sir,” Clint answered, lifting his head off his arm. 

“This may be a bit more intense than we’ve ever been,” Coulson said, his voice dropping back into a more gentle tone. “Safeword?”

“Zimt,” Clint replied promptly. 

“Good,” Coulson ran his hand over Clint’s hair, stroking and gentle. “Be still for me, and don’t let go.” 

Clint felt his legs arranged gently and a kiss was brushed to the back of each knee before Coulson rose and went back to the closet. More rummaging, and then a soft sigh as Coulson stood beside the bed, just looking. Clint sank back into headspace in the silence, feeling the air from the ceiling vent brush across his burning back. 

The silence was shattered by a crack like a gunshot about an inch from Clint’s right shoulder.

“Fuck!” Clint gasped, with a slight buck. His erection made itself known again with a vengeance. 

“Do NOT move,” Coulson barked. “Slightly out of practice.”

Another whip crack, this one close enough to Clint’s left shoulder for his skin to feel the whisper of displaced air. The next crack was like a wasp sting to Clint’s shoulder blade, and he groaned and curled his toes. Another bite from the lash, halfway down his back, then another on the opposite side of his spine. 

“Oh my god,” Coulson whispered shakily. There was nothing shaky about the short stripe of pain that painted across Clint’s right asscheek. “You look...”

All the air left Clint’s lungs, and he went limp at the words and the tone. At the next sting of the whip, he sucked in air to let out a whine of pain and need and pure, fiery want. He lost track after that; there were at least a dozen more strikes, but he could barely hear the crack over the hollow roaring in his ears.

“Enough,” Coulson growled, and the whip slid to the floor with a muffled thud. “Let go. Over.”

Clint barely made it to his back before Coulson was pressed on top of him, lips sucking at Clint’s jaw. 

“The way you took that, the way you look,” Coulson panted, dragging his teeth to Clint’s shoulder and locking down hard enough to draw blood. “Want you.. need you so much.”

Clint forced his arms to move, reaching down to shove roughly at Coulson’s sweatpants. 

“In me, Phil,” he growled, biting Coulson’s chest as they twisted to get the pants out of the way. Coulson bucked, grinding his hips hard against Clint’s, making them both shout. Coulson managed to pull the nightstand drawer all the way out, letting the contents spill to the carpet. He hung over the side of the bed while Clint folded himself into an impossible position to bite at Coulson’s side. 

“Found... Oh, fuck, Clint, yes,” Coulson said, shoving himself back onto the bed holding the bottle of lube. Clint laughed when Coulson slammed one hand into the center of his chest to pin him to the bed. 

“Legs,” Coulson barked. “Open.”

There was no grace or particular care to Coulson’s prep of Clint, shoving in two fingers to begin with, which made Clint buck and keen. 

“Let me hear you,” Coulson snarled against Clint’s shoulder. He twisted his fingers as he slammed them back in roughly, and Clint let out another high-pitched wail of need, pain, and lust.

“Now now now nownownownow,” Clint panted. “Been too long. Don’t wait. Now.”

And Phil wrapped Clint’s thigh around his waist leaving the other spread wide on the bed, lined up, and began to press in.

It burned, and Clint did not care. He tried to stretch, to press back, wrapping his other thigh around Coulson’s waist, too, but Phil dug his fingers into Clint’s ribs and forced him to stay still. 

“Damage bad,” Coulson gasped, shaking as he fought to maintain some semblance of control. “Let me just...”

And then they were locked together, and Clint forgot how to breathe. 

Had Coulson always been this beautiful? Clint lifted his hands to run over the soft curls of hair on Coulson’s chest. He scraped his nails down shoulders and over flexed biceps, trailed fingers along Coulson’s neck. 

“You’re really here,” Clint whispered, and then he watched in astonished bliss as Coulson’s face and control broke. Tears dropped freely from Coulson’s eyes as he drew back to slam himself deeper into Clint. 

“I never meant to leave you,” Coulson gasped. “I said always, and I didn’t mean to break my promise. I love you. Need you. Want you. Can’t live without...”

And then his hips stuttered as orgasm rushed over him. Coulson screamed, a primal, desperate sound, possessive and helpless at once.

“Goddamn, Phil,” Clint breathed, pulling Coulson tightly to his chest. “That was... I can’t... Goddamn...”

Coulson chuckled against Clint’s neck. 

“When I can move again,” he said dryly, “I’ll finish what I started.”

“No rush,” Clint replied, with a lift to one corner of his mouth. 

“I’ll take that as a challenge,” Coulson replied. He panted and trembled for a few minutes more, and then pushed himself up slowly. Clint watched him, still half-floating, but he snapped to attention as Coulson slid down Clint’s body, leaving a trail of bites. Their eyes met, briefly, before Coulson turned his attention to other parts of Clint’s anatomy, and then Clint’s eyes fell shut again.

He knew Coulson gave good blowjobs, really appreciated the fact, but this one was so much dirtier than usual. Coulson’s fingers filled his ass, and there was the pressure of tongue and teeth, and so much hot wetness, suction and more teeth. Clint came within minutes.

“Sorry for the rush,” Coulson said smugly as he climbed back up the bed to drop beside Clint. “But I want you to have time to get ready for the next round.”

Clint had not regained the power of speech yet, so he tried to glare. What actually ended up on his face was a soft, dopey grin.

“Right back,” Coulson said, dropping a kiss on Clint’s shoulder. Clint tried to move, but his body wouldn’t cooperate, so he just continued lying on his back, limbs flung out until Coulson returned carrying two tall glasses. 

“Sit,” Coulson told him, and then helped Clint up and pressed a glass of water to his lips. “Drink.”

Clint managed about half the water before it was switched with the other glass, apple juice this time. “Drink more.”

Coulson carefully lowered Clint’s head to the pillows and finished off the second half of both glasses. He clicked off the lamp and pulled the comforter back up the bed, crowding close to Clint’s sprawl. Clint felt Coulson’s head drop against his shoulder.

“Sleep now,” Coulson murmured, “and when we wake up, it’s your turn.”

Clint rumbled an agreement in the form of a wordless purr and managed to flip an arm across Coulson’s back. Their breathing slowly began to sync as they dropped into sleep.

*

They have been home together for five days when Natasha finally returns from her mission. Clint answers the door to her knock and is roughly shoved out of the way. She flits through to the living room and walks to where Coulson stands in the middle of the room, smiling at her. Without a word, she grabs the front of his button-up and rips the fronts apart. She presses her fingertips to his unmarked shoulder, and then her arms slide around his shoulders. She forces him to bend so she can hold his face to her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Natasha,” Coulson says into her hair. 

“You left him behind,” she replies with no venom in her tone. “He was unhappy. I didn’t like it.”

“I can’t promise it won’t happen again,” Coulson tells her, pulling her more tightly against his chest.

“I know. Just, please, shoot me before you do.”

“Sorry, Nat,” Coulson says. “He’ll need someone to look after him. Just... make sure he eats next time.”

“There will be no next time,” Clint interrupts, stepping up beside them and wrapping them both in his arms. They stand together, clinging a bit, a family.

“Clint,” Natasha says after a moment.

“Yeah, Nat?”

“I’m done now. Let go.”

Clint drops the arm from around her back, keeping his other hand splayed between Coulson’s shoulder blades. Natasha steps back to study them both, and Clint sees her eyes linger on the bruises along Coulson’s jaw and the bite marks on his chest. She eyes the scrapes that disappear under the edge of Clint’s t-shirt and the fingerprint bruises visible up both arms.

“You two go back to...” she eyes Clint’s wrist, the pale bruise from a cuff that got twisted beginning to fade. “That. See you at work.”

“Come by for dinner tomorrow,” Coulson tells her.

“I will,” she answers. “Take care of each other.”

Clint turns his head toward Coulson and looks into the blue eyes inches from his own. He feels his fingers close on the bar of the trapeze. His head has gone quiet, and he is at home in his skin again, the restlessness and hunger for violence having dissolved under the warmth of desire and love.

“Always,” Clint says. “For always.”

**Author's Note:**

> For everyone playing along at home on the story Palimpsest, I will get back to writing it, but this bunny hopped in front of that one, and one must feed the bunnies.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and, as always, your kudos and comments.
> 
> A glaring typo that escaped to Beta readers and myself (and most everyone else, apparently) is now fixed. Also adjusted the tags, since some people were afraid to read this one because of the Character Death tag.


End file.
